Repetition
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: You almost convince yourself that you’re not lying. Well, you were always good at that. Lit.


**A/N: **Uhhh...I didn't mean for this to come out so emo, but my muse and my mood both disagreed with me. So here you go.

--

You realize that you're completely hopeless.

His eyes are still just as brown—you didn't expect much less. You know that he can't see you, but you smooth your hair down anyway, picking invisible lint off your skirt.

You mirror his gaze when he turns. Your eyes travel automatically down his frame and you know that he must be smirking and this makes you blush.

He takes a step closer to you, and, suddenly, your heart stops.

You leave before either of you have the chance to say a word.

--

It's been two years (three months, sixteen days—you both know you've kept count).

You're glad that you decided to wear the blue dress because you know it makes your eyes stand out and you also know that he could never quite resist those.

You are very aware of how hot the room is.

He is laughing, champagne in his hand, talking to a pretty blond who you're sure you've never met before.

You get scared. You know that it's his turn to run, but you've never been good at sharing the spotlight.

So you turn and leave again.

--

This time, he sees you first. You know because his mouth is curved in that familiar way, and you feel stupid with your new, expensive haircut that your grandmother made you get.

He doesn't say hello, just yet. You're not sure why, but he just looks at you and turns back around.

You figure this is his way of payback.

You don't mind much, it gives you a chance to look at him unashamedly. You decide that he doesn't look much different, despite what years have come and gone.

When you feel a tap on your shoulder, you know that it's him. You turn around.

--

It's just as easy as it always was.

That's not saying much, considering your history. But still, you find the laugh not catching on the way up, and you aren't swallowing your words.

You like the smile on his face. It fits him in a confident way that wasn't there in high school.

You listen to him talk about his work, and the new books he puts out, and you tell him about your job at CNN and you force a smile but change the subject, and you know he can tell but you're happy because he is.

He sees the ring on your finger, and he nods and asks who it is.

You tell him, and his congratulations seems genuine. You pretend you don't care that he isn't jealous.

You almost convince yourself that you're not lying. Well, you were always good at that.

--

When it's time for him to go you ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach.

Just like you had ignored the butterflies you felt when he brushed against you, and the stars in your eyes when you saw him, and the tightness in your chest when he told you about his girlfriend.

He leans forward to give you a hug, but before you realize what's happening, his lips are on yours.

And you know that it's wrong, but you don't feel guilty.

He takes your face between his palms and your tongues are fighting for control.

When your eyes widen and you pull away, both of you are full of deja vu.

He leaves without another word.

--

It has been one year (six months, twenty-two days) since you last saw him.

You both pretend that you don't catch the looks out of the corners of your eyes and the frequent bathroom trips and the convenient way you manage to avoid each other.

You are both married, now.

But, eventually, you can no longer stick to quick glances and you almost laugh when you realize, after walking up to him, that it is your turn, once again.

You wear a face that is as fake as the diamonds around your neck are real, and you know he sees right through it. You both do.

When you recognize the irony that somehow, time has passed and you are alone—together, you aren't really surprised when his mouth meets yours.

You seem to have developed a pattern.

--

Because fate seems to like to play jokes on you, it turns out that his apartment is only fifteen minutes away from your house.

His wife is not around on Sundays, and neither is your husband.

Your kisses are stolen and you feel dangerous and sexy when you meet him at his apartment in the afternoons.

The shine of your marriage has long worn off, and you can hear the messages on his machine that convince you that it is the same for him, but both of you can't seem to end it.

You figure it is nostalgia.

Because it seems you only work when you aren't together.

When you leave him, you feel trashy and stupid, and you know that your husband can smell his cologne on your sheets, even though you shower five times when you get home.

You've become good at keeping secrets.

--

You cry when you hear the voice on the other line. Your husband tries to hush you, but your wails become more hysterical in each passing moment, and nothing he does is enough to calm you down.

Your mother asks you why you took it so hard, when you had not seen him in so long.

Luckily, your tears can shelter your response.

A letter arrives in the mail two days later, and you almost faint when you see the return address.

The three words written on it are enough to keep you in bed for three months, twelve days, and you find that your blue dress doesn't quite fit you like it used to.

The letter is found in your dresser drawer two days later when your end becomes similar to his, and your mother's choked sobs don't cover the ringing in the house.

_It isn't enough._

_--_

**END**_  
_


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